


Perpetual WIPs

by MoonBalloon



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: M/M, Major character death in the second chapter, Recreational Drug Use, a single man
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-02-04 02:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1763333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonBalloon/pseuds/MoonBalloon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chapter 1: <i>“Is this going to turn into a ‘I’ll suck yours if you suck mine’ sort of thing?”</i><br/>(Nick and Harry are friends and then more and then not and then maybe again?)</p><p>Chapter 2: <i>His knees hit the icy ground and he jerks awake in a cold sweat, panting and clutching his sheets hard enough for the skin of his hands to feel taut. He’s on his back, panting heavily, looking up at the ceiling and hoping that this time it will be different. He squeezes his eyes shut and feels to the right of him for a reassuring hand, already knowing he won’t find what he’s looking for.</i></p><p>(Both are standalone WIPs.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Love Blow, You Love Puff

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in summer of 2012 and I've gone back to it to add a few things here and there sometimes, but sadly I don't think I'll ever finish this fic. Here are some coherent bits of what I do have, in a loosely chronological order.
> 
> TW for casual use of cocaine in the first bit. Nothing graphic.
> 
> It's not Brit-picked, please endure.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Is this going to turn into a ‘I’ll suck yours if you suck mine’ sort of thing?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this in summer of 2012 and I've gone back to it to add a few things here and there sometimes, but sadly I don't think I'll ever finish this fic. Here are some coherent bits of what I do have, in a loosely chronological order.
> 
> TW for casual use of cocaine in the first bit. Nothing graphic.
> 
> Title from Amy Winehouse's _Back to Black._
> 
> It's not Brit-picked, please endure.

“I s’pose I’m a bad influence on you,” Nick says, apropos of nothing.

Harry looks at the upturned tea tray on the floor beside him, thinks, shakes his head. “Nah, you’re all right.”

Nick scoffs, “You mum would never invite me back for Christmas dinner if she saw half the things we get up to.”

“All in the tabs anyway,” Harry shrugs.

“Not this,” Nick points out.

“Well, this is fairly new, isn’t it?” Harry’s not really paying attention, more interested in gathering up the leftover powder on the tray into neat, straight lines.

Nick doesn’t respond. His eyes are heavy with pleasure as they follow the movement of Harry’s long fingers. Harry’s always been adamant about this; not that having it in neat lines gives him a better high, but apparently _it’s the principle of the thing_. Nick just thinks he’s watched too many movies.

He stills Harry’s hands to stop him from going at it again. “Leave it for later, come on.”

Harry opens his mouth like he’s about to protest, so Nick cuts him off, “S’not like you didn’t have half of it and it’s not very fine. Now, go splash water up your nose or you’ll get coke bogies.”

Harry huffs, childlike, but stomps to the hall bathroom. Nick watches him go, eyes firmly on his ass. Harry is childish at times, but he’s not actually a child so Nick is allowed to look. He _is_.

And if Nick’s eyes happen to follow Harry’s cock back into the living room, it’s Harry’s own fault. No one asked him to strip down to his skivvies the moment they entered Nick’s flat.

Harry flops down on the floor next to Nick and sighs, waiting for the kick. He closes his eyes, pushing Nick away when he shuffles a little closer. He tries again and this time Harry lets Nick settle his chin on his shoulder, arms slack around his waist. He rubs his cheek against Nick’s hair affectionately, flattening his quiff. Nick doesn’t seem to care; he’s nosing at Harry’s neck and his breath leaves behind hot puffs of air. Harry is grateful for the warmth.

“Haven’t had a proper shag in ages,” Nick grumbles, tugging on Harry’s earlobe with his teeth.

Harry winces at the pull. “S’too bad. I was with a girl last week – some Olympic star – said she was a gymnast… Proved it too.” He laughs, rubs his nose.

“Bully for you,” Nick says, moving away, hand drifting toward his crotch. “I’ve been spending my nights with a bottle of cheap wine and my hand. Crying.”

The look on his face is tragic.

Harry looks away before he does something indecent, snog him probably. “You weren’t crying last night, I called.”

Nick doesn’t seem to have heard, and when Harry next looks over, he’s slumped against the couch, blinking at him with a slightly manic grin on his face. Harry watches as Nick pops the button of his jeans and slowly pulls the zipper down before palming himself through his shorts.

As Nick strokes himself and a shaky breath falls from his lips, Harry grins, “Is this going to turn into a ‘I’ll suck yours if you suck mine’ sort of thing?”

“Hey, if you’re offering…”

Harry laughs, means to brush it off – what’s a wank between two friends? – but Nick is already crawling over and pushing Harry’s thighs apart. Harry turns away from his lips; Nick just latches on to the vein in his neck and starts sucking, slowly moving down. He lets Nick sit between his open thighs, gripping his cock through his half-undone jeans and lapping at the bruise surely forming on the wingtips of the swallows on Harry’s chest.

Nick feels a little lightheaded; he’s not sure if it’s the coke, the stifled moans now falling from Harry’s Cupid’s bow lips, or the feel of Harry's large hands warm on his chest – not pushing him away. He should stop probably, but the coke’s finally kicked in and the high has him jittery and _horny_. And if Harry is a good-enough friend to offer his body in Nick’s time of need, who is he to turn it down?

When Harry’s hands slide up to card through Nick’s hair, he abandons his spot on Harry’s collarbone and kisses up his jawline; Harry tilts his head up to accommodate him, resting it against the edge of the sofa. Nick, taking this as tacit permission, slides a hand down and gives Harry’s cock an experimental stroke through his boxer-briefs, touch turning more firm when he feels Harry hardening in his hand. He’s pretty sure he’s seen Harry naked before, but he’s also sure he wasn’t sober enough to remember. He takes a quick look down, and Harry laughs.

“Never seen a cock this big before, mate?”

His cheek earns him a rough jerk of his cock in Nick’s hands. Harry hisses, loud and slow, and Nick swallows the complaints he knows are coming with a kiss. It’s not their first – Nick vaguely remembers kissing Harry during a game of spin-the-absinthe-bottle one night. He has no memory of the kiss itself, just that he’s done it, but he remembers thinking Harry’s lips were far better than Ian’s or Rita’s. He plans to spend all night confirming the memory.

Harry’s heart is beating stupidly fast in his chest, hammering a tattoo against his ribcage and screaming to be let out. It’s an epiphany to say the least; Harry’s not sure how long he’s wanted this or how far he’s gone on Nick, but judging by the insistence of his own tongue and the compliance of Nick’s, they’re both around the same place. A blessed relief, so Harry hopes the way he sags against Nick and fists the back of his t-shirt says: _Yeah, that. You keep doing that and please don’t let’s ever stop?_

Nick’s muscles are taut with Harry’s weight because the boy’s gone soft and pliant in his arms. He wants to escalate whatever is happening here, wants to move to the bedroom, but Nick’s not got strength enough to lift a puppy right now, let alone Harry, who’s all lean muscles and white powder and an eagerness that would be obscene on anyone else. So he allows Harry to deepen the kiss, wondering what the proper procedure is for coaxing your best mate to let go of your lips long enough for you to get your kit off. Fortunately, Harry takes the matter out of his hands.

Harry tugs Nick’s t-shirt over his head, realizing after a second that it’s not Nick’s at all. It’s _his_ and he’s been looking for it for ages – he’d accused Zayn of theft and suffered the indignity of being pinned to the floor in front of Perrie and Eleanor in the ensuing tussle and _everything_.

“Been looking for this for ages,” he grumbles as he bats at Nick’s jeans. “Ugh, why are these so tight?”

Nick laughs, voice rough and husky in his ear, “Reckon they’re yours too.”

Harry fixes Nick with a stare that, even through the haze of coke and lust, Nick can interpret as _unamused_. “Get ‘em off then, you dirty fucking thief.”

“Watch your mouth, Harold, I’ve half a mind to gag you.”

Harry flushes, the soft pink blooming on his cheeks belying his challenge, “Go ‘head then, gag me. Tell me I’m a slag with a filthy mouth.”

And that – well, that’s just… Nick does gag him then, stuffs two fingers in Harry’s mouth and tells him to suck. Harry’s sinfully good with his tongue – no one should be that skilled at his age _, who the fuck is this kid?_ Nick’s dying to feel his mouth on his dick, thinks it’d be akin to watching endless seasons of Arrested Development while cuddling with Frank Ocean.

Nick removes his fingers from Harry’s mouth, drags them down his chest to pinch his nipples – the small ones. Harry yelps and Nick grins; he’s always wanted to know if Harry felt anything on those. Nick envisions two pairs of clamps and gets impossibly harder at the thought, so far gone that he almost doesn’t register Harry’s mouth on his collarbones. He’s muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, “You’ll have to wear turtlenecks for two weeks straight when I’m done” and the thought is incredibly arousing, but Nick started this so he’ll decide who’ll be wearing the turtlenecks, thanks very.

He stops flicking Harry’s nipples, pulls away to lift his bum enough to pull his jeans down to mid-thigh. Harry yanks his legs over his lap, working the tight ends over Nick’s ankles and past his feet, then pulling his jeans off in one smooth tug.

Nick is impressed, but maybe that’s because his last few lays had only got his jeans just past his knees. “Got a lot of practice getting men out of their trousers, have you, Harold?”

Harry’s hands still on Nick’s shoulders. His cheeks are tinged pink, eyes downcast, as he mumbles a quiet, “I’m not _actually_ a slag, you know.”

Nick takes his feet off Harry’s lap and pulls the boy between his legs. He should have known Harry would take it that way, though he certainly didn’t mean to echo the gossip rags, so he goes for a soothing, “I know, love. Fuck ‘em all.”

Harry shrugs, the comment already forgotten, “Fuck me?” Suddenly, he’s all dimples and Nick’s left dizzy in the wake of his smile.

He shakes himself out of it and tugs Harry up with a firm grip on his arms, “Up, up, get up.” Nick manhandles Harry onto the couch. It’s harder than it should be because Harry is slack in his arms and seemingly weak as a kitten. Harry falls onto the couch in a confusion of long limbs and wild hair, taking Nick with him. Harry’s lips are back on his before Nick can catch his balance, so he’s left half-kneeling and half-laying on top of Harry. Harry’s not showing any signs of letting Nick go long enough for him to get comfortable though, so he resigns himself to early-onset lumbago and goes back to palming Harry through his shorts.

Harry responds beautifully, bucking up into Nick’s hand and making wonderful, embarrassing noises from the back of his throat. If Nick didn’t have a handful of popstar cock, he would have been filing those noises away to use as ammunition the next time Harry gets mouthy. But Harry’s rubbing up against him and the pressure in Nick’s cock is reaching the wrong side of painful.

He pulls away from Harry’s kiss and feels a brief flash of guilt when Harry chases Nick’s mouth with his own then drops his head back on the arm of the couch, breathing heavily. Nick sits up between Harry’s legs and doesn’t make fun when Harry reaches out with both hands and grabby fingers. He kisses down Harry’s chest, pulls at his fourth nipple a bit, which prompts Harry to say,

“My top ones are feeling neglected, you know.” He tilts up, thrusting out his chest like he has tits.

Nick zeroes in on his top right nipple, pulls and tugs and licks until Harry whines and squeezes his shoulders to get away. Nick slips his hand down Harry’s briefs, _enough preliminaries_ , and bypasses his cock for his balls. Harry looks pleasantly surprised, bites his lips and squirms under him. Nick wraps his fingers around Harry’s cock then, tight, swears he can feel Harry’s blood throbbing through it.

“Gonna take off your shorts, yeah?” Nick figures it’s good to give Harry a heads up; he’s still not sure if Harry wants quite what he wants.

But Harry nods eagerly, already pushing at the waistband.

_-/skip ahead a few moments/-_

“You’ve not been letting strange boys fuck you without condoms, have you, young Harold?” Nick hopes that’s not the case. He’d be a bit disappointed if it were, to be honest. He has no legs to stand on when it comes to safe sex, but he’d thought Harry had a better head on his shoulders than he did when he was nineteen.

Harry shakes his head though, “Just – just you.”

And it’s ridiculous how _special_ that makes Nick feel. There’s no explanation for why Harry makes him go all fluttery inside – he knows because Finchy asked and he didn’t have an answer – but this is what Harry’s reduced him to.

_-/skip ahead a few moments more/-_

Nick can feel harry shaking under him. He stops, strokes the small of his back soothingly, kisses the back of his neck.

Harry’s moaning under him though, saying something like, “No, no. Nick, please. Move.”

But Nick stays still, halfway in. “First time, Haz?” he asks, a little tentatively. He hasn’t exactly been gentle up ‘til this point.

“No, just a bit – a bit out of practice,” Harry gasps.

_-/skip ahead a few months/-_

He meets Taylor at the VMAs. They’ve spoken before, conversations via text and even a short call once, but it’s their first time meeting face-to-face. They get along just fine. Harry likes her well enough and she seems keen.

His publicist encourages it.

So Harry goes out with Taylor a few times, lets himself be seen around New York with her because that’s what she wants and Harry’s nothing if not accommodating. She’s nice and he learns a lot about the writing side of music from her. It’s nothing he wants though. He can’t bring himself to care about the empty, pointed lyrics she runs by him because he doesn’t want conversations about codas or riffs or _did you see Skyfall_ ; he wants to christen another corner of his stupidly huge and stupidly empty house with Nick, his purple haze, and the newest Black Milk before going _home_ to lay in the hollow his body has made in Nick’s bed.

Nick has never said as much, but Harry knows that’s what he wants. He wants someone to walk the dog with, someone to make him breakfast, and make sure there’s more than just crisps and wine in the house. Someone to come home to. He can give him that, Harry thinks – a nice herb garden like Nick’s always wanted, though he wouldn’t know basil from cilantro; that ugly, overpriced lamp Nick’s been eyeing every time they go to Alfie’s… He wants to give Nick everything, wants him to have everything, but Nick is stubborn.

_-/skip ahead to maybe the end/-_

It’s disconcertingly familiar, this thing between them. He can see it in Harry’s eyes, their future, but the vacuous slant of Nick’s face does nothing to stop the boy. The knowledge of what’s surely about to happen is enough to make Nick shake with the effort of holding back his sobs because Harry could have had so much more if Nick hadn’t given in to his baser instincts so long ago. If he had listened to Harry’s teasing warnings not to fall in love with him.

Harry places delicate butterfly kisses on the thin skin of his throat, grip tight on his hips, and Nick is amazed they have ever been anything less than what they are now. Nick’s the one stripped bare, but adoration and longing are so nude on Harry’s face that he doesn’t feel any more naked than Harry is. Nick has always wanted this, whatever this is, but he’s never been offered it before and now he’s not sure he knows how to accept it. He’s much better now at handling hookups than he was at Harry’s age, but it’s possible he doesn’t actually know how to tell a boy he loves him. He’s not as brave as Harry is and he can’t grasp the enormity or finality of it, so as Harry opens his mouth to cross the final barrier, Nick kisses him again to shut him up. Harry, however, is persistent.

“Grimm… Nick, no. Nick, please,” Harry moans into his neck. “I lo –”

Nick’s hand flies up to cover Harry’s mouth, squeezing hard, and Harry’s eyes fly open, frantic.

“Don’t say it,” Nick pleads. It’s not too late to save whatever they’ve built here, the friendship – the _relationship_ – they’ve nurtured over the past three years. “Don’t say it.” He’s begging now, but it’s his last resort.

“We’ll go skiing, just you and me. We’ll get a suite and skip the skiing for a week straight if you want. It’ll be lovely, you’ll see. Just don’t say anything. Not that.”

Harry’s eyes darken and the floodgates of Nick’s heart burst open. He feels Harry close his mouth against his palm, so Nick lets him drop to his knees and rest his head against Nick’s stomach, breathing deeply. There’s an endless, terrible beat of silence before Harry starts to pull down Nick’s briefs.

Nick runs his hand through Harry’s hair, tilting his face up with a firm grip on his curls, his eyes apologetic. It’s unspoken, but Harry seems to understand because he breathes out a quiet, “It’s okay. We’ll be okay.”


	2. A Single Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His knees hit the icy ground and he jerks awake in a cold sweat, panting and clutching his sheets hard enough for the skin of his hands to feel taut. He’s on his back, panting heavily, looking up at the ceiling and hoping that this time it will be different. He squeezes his eyes shut and feels to the right of him for a reassuring hand, already knowing he won’t find what he’s looking for._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for major character death. Not an AU fic.
> 
> Based on Tom Ford's _A Single Man._

He always fights to swim to the surface, though he already knows how this plays out. Knows he doesn’t have to try. He will wash up on the deserted shores of Liverpool, wake in the snow to completely white surroundings.

-//-

The falling snow is at once beautiful and threatening, completely erasing the world around him. Through the swirling flakes, he stumbles forward a few feet to find a car, gnashed against a roadside tree. Barely recognizable.

Nick approaches it carefully after calling out for help for the poor soul stuck inside, one arm hanging out the driver’s side window. He peers into the car through the smashed window; there is no one else. The only man inside is slumped over the steering wheel. He leans in closer to see if, by some miracle, the man is breathing. There’s a lot of blood, but Nick has seen enough crime shows to know that does not always mean the worst. He dare not touch the man’s head though, in case he inadvertently hurt him further. So he feels for a pulse at the man’s wrist, fingers the ripped sleeve of the sweater the man is wearing. It’s oddly familiar, reminds him of the first Christmas he spent alone with his boyfriend. He can’t see anything properly through the thick snowflakes swirling around him, but the locket of the necklace thrown over the steering wheel seems familiar too. He touches it lightly, turning it towards him. Sees the shape of the simple, silver cross. He blinks once, twice. Taking a deep breath, he reaches for the locket next to the cross and sees the paper airplane, now with one bent wing.

He sinks to the ground with a broken, chocked wail, chest heaving with sobs and the heels of his hands pressed to his eyes as if he could unsee the nightmare in front of him.

His knees hit the icy ground and he jerks awake in a cold sweat, panting and clutching his sheets hard enough for the skin of his hands to feel taut. He’s on his back, panting heavily, looking up at the ceiling and hoping that this time it will be different. He squeezes his eyes shut and feels to the right of him for a reassuring hand, already knowing he won’t find what he’s looking for.

He looks to the right, past the empty space next to him, and to the alarm clock. It’s nearly eight in the morning; he might as well get up.

Fastidiously ignoring the other toothbrush and second set of razor and shaving cream next to his deodorant, Nick goes through his morning routine mechanically. Toothbrush, shaving cream, aftershave, two dips of cologne on the back of his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me at [mermaidenharry](http://mermaidenharry.tumblr.com/).

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at [mermaidenharry](http://mermaidenharry.tumblr.com/).


End file.
